Perspective

(And another one I appreciate by Mmv)

When I hear somebody sigh, "Life is hard," I am always tempted to ask, "Compared to what?"
~ Sidney Harris
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Sometimes, those of us who choose to find joy or (at least refrain from dwelling on all that is somehow less than what we had hoped or dreamed) are dismissed as being less transparent or true than others.

What bosh.

We all have our burdens, great and small, to bear. All of us. If there is no shame in baring all -- whether in posts to a forum or entries to a blog -- then, truly, there should be no shame in choosing not to. Isn't it simply a given? We each have our issues, concerns, problems, disappointments, and bad dreams.

Although I am neither a religious nor a particularly Pollyanna-ish person, it seems so simple to me: Life is often hard, but it becomes waaaay more difficult when I focus on all that can and has made it hard.

In the nearly fourteen years of our homeschooling adventure, for example, we have endured health scares (two of which involved our children), two moves (one of which was utterly unexpected), budget crises, a major automobile accident, the terminal illness and death of a parent, the deaths of friends, the frequent business travel of a spouse, and numerous other pains and sorrows that a marriage and a life (neither of which looks exactly as it did in my girlish dreams) can yield.

Through it all, though -- no durned question about it -- Mr. M-mv and I have provided our children with an education far superior to that which we received. The kids read more, ask more, do more, challenge more, work better, write and speak more clearly, fear less, and reach further than we ever, ever did at their ages.

That is, in the end, both our gift and our responsibility to them -- to parent them, teach them, guide them, care for them, celebrate them, protect them, let them go -- no matter what life is doing to us.

We are, after all, the grown-ups. Imperfect, periodically troubled, but adult and therefore responsible -- for ourselves, for our children, and for our choices.

And my choice when confronted with life's difficulty is to remind myself of its possibility. Writing about the books that we're reading or the music that we're playing or the birds that we're seeing, the museums we're visiting or the Shakespeare we're enjoying or the discoveries we're making -- in fact, chronicling the reading, thinking, learning, and just doing that defines this family is rather like a long-needled immunization against the soul-sucking nature of some aspects of the quotidian (e.g., the unceasing need to wash dishes, fold socks, provide meals, and even, some days, work) as well as some of the more difficult problems life can assign (e.g., automobile accidents and work deadlines and budget concerns).

Do you get it?

Navel-gazing can arouse in me a sense of dissatisfaction and unease. Braces. Body aging. Bills. Books due at the library. Beat the deadline. Broken garage door. Boy needs a ride. Bike needs repair. Blimey, does it never end? Thinking, though, the synthesis of my reading and learning -- oh, how that energizes me. So, too, does the occasional daydreaming session. Yes, in time, I will call the orthodontist, rub lotion into my wrinkles, write the checks, return the books, finish my work, arrange for the repairman's visit, drop off my son, change the tire on my daughter's bike. But first I will dwell on those things that enliven my sense of self and of life's possibilities and promises.

May you find some value in doing the same.